In her novel
His Lovely Wife, Elizabeth Dewberry presents what my witchy friends might call a "woo woo" experience as something that doesn't seem all that far-fetched. And as anyone who's even a little bit "woo woo" can tell you -- or in fact, as any scientist can tell you -- the far reaches of experience and the far reaches of science can be remarkably similar in ways that we're unable to explain.
We meet Ellen Baxter as the quintessential "trophy wife," gorgeous enough to be briefly mistaken for Princess Diana when arriving at the Paris Ritz. Ellen has her moment in the intrusive glare of the photographers' flashes, but is released from their scrutiny as soon as the mistake becomes apparent. She's in town with her brilliant, stodgy husband while he attends a conference.
The next morning brings a flood of breaking news of Diana's death. (I remember very well awakening to the news myself -- August 1997 -- and being unexpectedly tearful in front of the television. Diana had her faults, as we all do, but managed to be a beacon of kindness and heart in the midst of all she endured. Her legacy lives on.)
Ellen anticipates shopping, a tour of Notre Dame, and a nice lunch somewhere. Instead, she goes to the crash site, finds an unconventional photograph of Diana, and meets the photographer who apparently left it there. On impulse, she takes the photograph with her; from then on, she hears Diana's voice in her head and experiences some of Diana's emotions and physical feelings in her own body. This confluence becomes a powerful tool for Ellen to gain insight into Diana's life and, significantly, into her own.
This is a wonderful novel. Once we accept the premise that the italics in the text represent Diana's voice and make peace with the idea of treating a real person as a character in a novel, Ellen's journey of re-self-discovery grips our attention. Ellen's grown accustomed to being an afterthought, a mere accessory to her successful husband, hardly anything more. If we have a shred of that feeling of erasure in our own experience, we will relate. With Diana as a guide and commentator and Ellen as a companion, we seek our own re-self-discovery. And isn't that what literature is for?
Excerpt:
And the next morning, I'm back in our room from the site of her fatal crash, lying in bed watching TV and thinking about calling my mother, and I'm still wishing I'd thanked Diana for that.
I think, -- Maybe that -- all of it, some of it -- would have meant something to her. Maybe if I'd told her she gave a lot of women who felt like failures the courage to hold their heads up high, she would have taken it with her to her grave a few hours later.
And she says, Thank you, Ellen.
I sit up. It hasn't occurred to me that she could hear my thoughts.
I think, -- You're welcome.
That's not how it felt, though, she says.
Then she's quiet.
I think to myself, -- Wow.
And then to her, -- What did it feel like?